


Sometimes Death is Beautiful

by Kisuru



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Fingering, Biting, Blood Drinking, Dark, F/F, Loyalty, Mildly Dubious Consent, Rough Sex, Tribadism, Zombies, death kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-14 17:09:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10540860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kisuru/pseuds/Kisuru
Summary: After finding a corpse on the battlefield, Priscilla makes a decision about the zombie's role in her life. She ends up with a little more than expected and she has no complaints.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sath/gifts).



Recently, the war had escalated. Brave soldier after soldier would venture into the battlefield and prepare for a premature demise. It was the necessary routine of life in a ravaged country brimming with bloodshed and a shortage of warm bodies to spare the effort.  
  
Like now, for example—Priscilla was always found herself in the middle of a deserted, barren battlefield after blades had crossed and lives extinguished.  
  
Sizzling green and red sparks of light dimmed around the wide summoning circle carved into the bloodied, muddied soil. Priscilla watched the body in the center, hungry eyes never leaving the outline of the corpse. The birds and woodland creatures used for the sacrifice laid mangled at the circle’s edge, fully appreciated for their premature loss of life.  
  
Silence had loomed for a few minutes. Most would assume an undead would moan upon revival, but not this one. She stared at her with burning hazel eyes that made Priscilla’s spine shiver pleasantly.  
  
Yes, she might do. She might do quite nicely.  
  
Priscilla shifted closer, the edge of her lips just as sharp as the quip in her low, husky voice.  
  
“You bled out,” she stated matter-of-factly, primly. It wasn’t a criticism but mild fascination—Priscilla was always taken with how every one of her undead died. Priscilla knelt and cupped the woman’s face in her palm. She stroked her cheek and watched the way her eyes darted towards her, highly unimpressed.  
  
Days ago, this undead had been one of the living. She had died only a day prior due to battle because of being a soldier. Only the jagged, red line down her side showed where she had bled out. Pricilla couldn’t help marvel at how beautifully symmetrical it looked across the expanse of her tanned skin.  
  
Unfocused eyes seared into Priscilla’s blue eyes. A suspenseful thrill shot down her spine and made her shiver with delight at just how _fierce_ this one was.  
  
The woman turned her head away and thickly huffed. Nothing in her body language said that she was uncomfortable in her position, but for the first time she shifted and attempted to sit up. She gripped at her side and gasped—the pain apparently had not subsided. She gritted her teeth, glaring at her. Priscilla deemed to add, she _proudly_ glared.  
  
“But I did stab the bastard who killed me. Saw him land off his horse,” she growled. She offered a wild, toothy grin—minus the missing gap of a tooth in the forefront—that served as a warning. No one would dare think they would tell the tale after meeting her. The solider nodded to a discarded sword with a green gem emblazoned in its hilt that was lodged in a mountain of dust. “Got me in the side, did he?” Her wince came on cue, but her cackle was equally rough around the edges, full of mirth. “But you see, I cut _him_ across the neck! My blow was superior!”  
  
Priscilla’s eyes lit up. How delightful.  
  
Either way, she had realized her fate by this point.  
  
Yet it didn’t stop Priscilla from recounting the way her body had twitched under her touch. Most of the alive thought the undead were completely under her spell after their awakening, but that was far beyond the truth considering human nature. If burning gazes spoke volumes, this undead was more self-aware and intensive than the undead usually were.  
  
Technically, the undead was not hers. She was the country’s, but she want make her hers anyway.  
  
The living citizens were the ones that required the most protection. While she was considered one of the living _,_ she was also considered a soldier on the magical front lines that must put everyone before her own safety. Thankfully, the days of the government harshly criticizing necromancers for their service before the war outbreak were ancient history.  
  
Normally, citizens strong in magic rose to the rank of necromancers, and the physically study and well-built were given status as soldiers. It was systematic, and the he military relied on order to keep pace. She was not a warrior type herself and would never be shoehorned into it much to her relief on the matter; the government cared not for their soldiers’ living conditions as long as they could resurrected and used for the good of the country in the future.  
  
But she cared in her own ways.  
  
To her honor, Priscilla did necromancy by choice, but the world was highly unforgiving and hazardous. Finding cold bodies meant traversing the battlefields. The outside was a place of no small consequences. Snuffing out a life was easier than blowing out a candle on a pitch black night without moonlight.  
  
So, Priscilla was in contract with the government to keep the number of undead soldiers constantly replenished and stationed for combat whenever a red sealed enveloped was delivered calling for yet another horde. Still, she could only do so much physically without a protector. After all, getting out to this location submerged in the countryside had been hellish a springboard of death traps everywhere.  
  
No one called life precious.  
  
Death was controllable.  
  
Death and life were more or less synonymous on an unbalanced scale in her work. Above all, Priscilla held hostile reservations against ever falling prey to the selfish whims of professionals in her field.  
  
The engraving on the silver identification necklace around the woman’s neck read in mechanical script _Rashida_. She normally never notices anything as personal as a _name_ for the undead she breaths life back into, but she can’t help notice how Rashida’s thick eyelashes flutter while watching her process this information and drink it in ravenously. Equally dazzling frizzy, black hair spilt over her shoulders, strands of hair naturally curled into ringlets albeit mussed in light blood. Undeniably, she was also quite captivated with the faint blue of her lips.  
  
Before she cares to react, Rashida snatches at her upper arm. From what she has seen, Rashida is by no means one to let time pass by idly, but she still did not initially expect to feel a sharp (but welcome) pain. Priscilla does not even flinch when teeth graze and nip at the exposed flesh on her shoulder.  
  
So she had caught on, after all. Heat stirred up in her stomach, and Priscilla is thrilled in any case.  
  
“Forward, aren’t you.” Amusement laced her tone though she has no complains whatsoever. This was not uncommon—the undead tended to be aroused immediately after coming back to life while all their senses were notched up and electrified from her magic—but she was taken that her unwavering flirting over this one had not gone overlooked.  
  
Priscilla’s shifting allowed the sleeve of her royal purple cloak to fall further down her arm, giving Rashida further access to her skin. Rashida started to leave a path across her skin, and Priscilla fell backwards, head lolled back and eyes critically watching, palms planted on the ground behind her.  
  
Eventually, Rashida’s ministrations turn into frenzied scraping, leaving creases and marks blistering like tiny suns across her skin; she can feel the blood welling up from under the fragile surface. The bite marks go the length of her collarbone to her upper arms. Rashida’s hand lifted up higher and tugged at the few strands of wavy, rouge-red hair that had escaped from Priscilla’s loosened ponytail earlier, enamored with the taste of salty and moist skin.  
  
Priscilla’s breath hitched as the cold afternoon wind blew against her skin and the pain settled in. It was invigorating, intoxicating--this was a small sample of the pain Rashida had felt before her untimely death and Priscilla _needed_ in on that sensation. Blood dribbled down her shoulder, and Rashida lapped at it with a rough and unforgiving tongue, soaking up the droplets that smear around her mouth. In reality, it’s actually a small wound, but Priscilla found thrill in the fact she is _bleeding_ and this attractive undead actually groans at the metallic taste of her blood.  
  
Warm blood prickled out of her veins, and she sucked in a deep breath, amazed at the discipline Rashida showed her in not overdoing herself.  
  
Priscilla pulled away. Stars flashed in front of her eyes, but she was sure that was the pleasure rather than lightheadedness. Still, she was not one to be left without something to do for too long and Rashida had been provided enough of her blood to quench her thirst, though she had no intention of stitching herself up right then. On the other hand, the undead needed a taste of blood of the one they were going to serve specifically. Now that was in her favor.  
  
Rashida licked her lips, and Priscilla watched the way her tongue raked across cherry red lips.  
  
“You have turned me into an undead…” Rashida shook her head as the realization dawned. She might have been ignoring it, but she no longer could with the evidence covering her. The fire in her eyes reignited and directed it at the necromancer in front of her. “It’s shameful to taste the blood of your enemies,” she murmured with a hint of disgust. Regardless, darkness flickered in her eyes. Despite her inner conflict, her new nature clearly made her blood satisfying. “To lose one’s control. Warriors bath in the blood of enemies, not taste blood.”  
  
Priscilla’s smirk could shatter knives. “Doesn’t that give you power? Besides, I’m not your enemy.”  
  
Rashida snorted disdainfully. She did not argue it, but Priscilla could tell her posture was different.  
  
To make a noble warrior fall so these principles and deal with the aftermath of so much instilled rage…  
  
Priscilla would gladly risk the consequences.  
  
Now, she had her own ambitions, and the coil in the pit of her stomach tightened. She instead of moved lower impatiently, gripping her by the sides. Long, painted purple nails scratched against Rashida’s side, further stirring up the leftover blood racing frantically throughout her system. Rashida hissed at the contact—she was sensitive as well as aroused, Priscilla observed—and threw her head back. Her ringlets cascaded over her back, mouth open still with droplets of blood dripping down her chin.  
  
Jolts surged in Priscilla’s chest at the bare feeling of Rashida’s thigh against hers. Before Rashida had been revived, she had carefully pulled her clothes off to check her battle wounds and monitor her flow of power to properly heal it. The red lash once again beautifully met her gaze in its vivid glory; her scar was such a magnificent tribute to a fleeting life and marking for death. Priscilla stored it to memory, joy skyrocketing at the thought of the sweetness of death overtaking her when it had been inflicted.  
  
In the long run, death wasn’t so harrowing. It had brought them together, and she was quite fond of this woman. More introductions would come later.  
  
Her lips crashed against Rashida’s. Their mouths mashed and meshed to Priscilla’s guidance at first, and Priscilla forced her tongue to meet Rashida’s, who fully met her movements. Rashida’s breath was hot, but the cavern of her mouth was not—the taste of her blood had cooled just as much as the residue was swiped over her lips. Priscilla moaned.  
  
Priscilla’s fingers reached between Rashida’s legs and parted them wide open. Muscular, sculpted inner thighs met her sight, the skin under her fingers rough yet soft and the muscle no doubt shaped over thousands of training exercises. Priscilla imagined her running swiftly with such strong and powerful legs, diving skillfully when leaned in for a strike.  
  
Rashida pivoted her knees upwards and spread her legs open. The glint of her features revealed she normally would not let _anyone_ do that to her, but she groaned, embracing what Priscilla would offer her. She gripped Priscilla’s work trousers on instinct, and soon they were roughly pushed down her legs and snagged on her ankles before being flung far away.  
  
Meanwhile, she feasted her eyes on the curve of her sex and clit. Priscilla wouldn’t have minded licking a smooth trail between those velvety walls and bask in the enticing, subtle scent of death and sizzling magic wrapped into one. But Rashida had other plans.  
  
Pushing her way to crawl and straddle her, Rashida snatched her arms and hovered above Priscilla. In wild abandon Rashida fumbled until she was able slipped her leg between Priscilla’s, grinding against her thigh. Priscilla noticed the hints of cramped up muscles after her death, but she powered through it, and she was quite pleased to see that determination and the few remnants of wetness gliding across her skin. Rashida forced her way between her legs and settled in, leaned over her and allowing desire to ravish the bit of humanity she had recovered.  
  
Rashida’s thighs rocked her entire frame—and damn did it feel so good in its mindlessness but _embracing_ of her body and molding to her form—yet attentive in its roughness. Rashida’s ministrations turned lower and less controlled, lower as her clit and folds finally touched her skin directly for a moment before she moved up. Priscilla gasped and panted at the way she pressed down on her and savored the stimulation, sweltering from the tangle of their limbs under the heat from her own skin.  
  
For leverage, Priscilla’s arms wrapped around Rashida’s back. Her palms fervently traced the dip in her back continuing their track until they reached the rounded cheeks of his ass. She was not one to be completely passive, however, and Priscilla ignored this and jabbed her fingers in, scissoring them.  
  
Rashida howled in responses. She nipped at her shoulder out of reflex and a little bit of surprise, whole body shivering from the intrusion, but Priscilla did not let her stop. She reached further around and squeezed her, forcing her closer to her, making it clear that the friction better _not_ stop. Rashida’s muscle clenched around her finger, but she continued to dig deeper in, stretching her.  
  
Usually, for someone alive it was warm in the tight walls beyond the ring of muscle, but Priscilla took special indulgence in the cool touch that met her fingers. It was even cooler than Rashida’s mouth had been save for the light hum of her magic racing along her skin that briefly skimmed her fingertips. Most of all, she was cool from shortened blood flow throughout her veins and arteries. She wanted more of that deep friction. Priscilla pushed in her digits to keep a better purchase and spread her wider, seeking, coaxing to nudge in further, digits plunging in and out in a similar wild rhythm in the span of her passage to Rashida against her leg.  
  
The stirrings in the pit of Priscilla’s stomach flared and roared in her ears. She squirmed under the trashing of Rashida’s motions and raked at her back, and Rashida pinned her down. The wetness on her thigh increased each and every time she moved, and electricity zapped down Priscilla’s spine when Rashida’s soft folds touched her own. She had to pivot her hips in a certain way to meet the discomfort of it head-on. Still, every time her core even brushed Rashida’s and the slickness of her essence dribbled across her inner thigh and drove her faster, she was completely unraveled in bliss and moaning as loudly as the stereotypical undead she resurrected.  
  
The release threatened to overflow and overtake her. Priscilla’s mind turned foggy and void of thought. Rashida’s eyes clouded over, arching high as she pushed against her one last time, slamming down.  
  
Rashida’s orgasm undid her first in a crashing blow. She whimpered and fell on top of Priscilla’s body and quivered while she let it overcome her, body spent, huffing heavily. Priscilla straightened for air. She could smell the musk and scent of blood (hers and theirs) and threw her head back, reveling in the sweetness of death and her own shudders of pleasure. Still, she was much more composed. Priscilla flexed her fingers inside of Rashida once last time, unwinding her arms and letting them fall languidly at her sides, watching her nonetheless as she laid on the filthy battlefield alongside her.  
  
Tiredly, Priscilla only grinned to herself at the red bruises across her shoulder and legs. Everything was bruising up quite nicely, if she said so herself. Normally, she didn’t like to have leftover marks, but she would absolutely allow it this time around.  
  
Time passed while they recollected themselves from basking in the afterglow of it all. Priscilla was the first to bridge the distance untangle their legs from each other, scooting backwards. Death was so fleeting to fully immerse herself in and that was what she loved about it; Priscilla could not have this exhilaration all the time. Luckily at least, Rashida had more or less returned the same kind of raw lust and passion (she hoped would turn into something more developed) and that was enough for her. Eventually, though, she had no idea what that would turn into if she would agree to protect her—and she would pull out persuasive techniques if need be. She would always rather talk than be physically violent with her undead, after all. Especially one she thoroughly enjoyed.  
  
Rashida stared at her through half-lidded eyes. Priscilla saw the indecision that remained, but she was a little less uptight than before. She held herself. High In that moment, though she seemed realized just how vulnerable she was in that lone moment. Had she followed her instincts as a soldier, or as an undead? Priscilla guessed that was what she asked herself in the way her lips trembled. Either way, she had been just as eager as Priscilla had been.  
  
Biting her lip, Priscilla was drawn to her more than even a few minutes ago with such uncertainty.  
  
“I don’t remember much, you know,” Rashida told her evenly. She scooted back from her, keeping her back straight, not giving any kind of regret.  
  
The undead managed to have _some_ regret upon the news sinking in. She at least admired her stance.  
  
“Expected,” Priscilla returned. She stood to her feet, wobbly at first, then gathered up her spellcasting materials and locked them in the light black box she always carried around with her. She did nothing to cloth herself immediately, and she noticed the way Rashida’s gaze never left her from the corner of her eye. Smoldering eyes held distrust, resentment.  
  
“I don’t trust you at all,” she replied a more sharply to get her point across. The edges of her personality were beginning to show to Priscilla’s expectations, and her jaw squared. “On the battlefield we soldiers hate your kind for... controlling us against our will.”  
  
Priscilla snapped the box in her hand shut. She shrugged at her helplessly, head tilting a little.  
  
Priscilla glanced casually down at her shoulder. “On the other hand, I don’t think I’m the one who initiated this,” she reminded her cheerfully, a teasing tone of dark humor underlying her words. “What do you have to say about that? I don’t think you would start something like this without trusting me a _smidge_.”  
  
Rashida eyes widened at the suddenness of it all. She stared down at her, lips quivering for a second in rage or confusion, eyes swimming in amazement. She had been caught off guard… and she couldn’t deny it. Her voice cracked slightly as she tried to speak and counterattack that assessment, but she only puffed her chest out at Priscilla and a frown, Instead of admitting any folly of her own, she told her, “When I was dying, I knew you’d come.”  
  
Of course all soldiers were taught in any training they may be possible targets for necromancers, but Rashida took gracefully. It was a fresh breath of air on a battlefield reeking of death and putrid blood. Priscilla felt nothing for the fallen soldiers’ bodies feet away from them, but she curiously awaited Rashida’s affiliation with her. It would take time, but she had time to spare, so she had no reason to worry.  
  
“I’m not so bad.” Priscilla stood to her feet and tucked the black metal box under her shoulder. She peered down at Rashida fearlessly. Because if there was anything she was completely in tune with most of the time that was the feelings of the undead she raised and communicated with. “But can’t you trust me? You’ll give me the benefit of the doubt. I’ve let you do with me what you want—so can’t you do that much for me?” She wagged her finger and pointed it around the battlefield. “And you can fight whatever way in which you please under me, you know.”  
  
Rashida did not respond in words, but it didn’t take long to start walking through the field of diseased bodies. And with every step, Priscilla could see that Rashida was watching her back and anything that may creep out of the woods. She was content that this was their starting point even if it was not perfect and steeped in some misunderstandings.


End file.
